Oxytocin
by A'isha Ishtar
Summary: Earlier that year, she developed an infatuation with another patient. It was not unheard of, but hers bordered on an obsession. She just sat in her cell drawing him, and as she did she whispered his name over and over... "Michael..." Please be kind!
1. Chapter 1

Samara Elizabeth Weeks, patient number A29-32, wasn't typically considered a problem among the staff at Smith's Grove. Most of them actually didn't mind watching her or interacting with her, because she wasn't all that dangerous compared to some of the others. The only thing she ever did was draw; she would accept it in any way, shape, or form. Most of the staff simply sat down beside her, gave her a coloring book and box of crayons or a tablet and pencil, and watched her fill in the pre-drawn lines or create her own visions.

Her drawings may not have been the best in the world, but they were certainly seen as the best in Smith's Grove at least. Nobody ever really saw her put the finishing touches on the pictures, such as adding shadows and signing her name, but somehow they got completed. When they were completed, she made sure they were displayed. When her newest nurse or "babysitter" came in her cell, she would poke them with her latest finished work, insisting that it be put on show in the main hallway. They would usually smile, tell her they'd put them up later, and stuck them in a folder. But they never did.

Why? Samara's drawings were considered far too gruesome and upsetting to be shown anywhere but in her own cell, or sometimes staff meetings. Her pictures consisted mostly of gore, violence, and a healthy dose of sharp objects, usually forks - _giant_ forks, most of the time. When someone pissed her off, Samara drew herself stabbing them in the neck, chest, or nether regions with a fork so massive it would be unwieldy in real life, but not in her drawings. She even drew the blood, spurting out as if she knew exactly which angle and direction it came out in.

And she probably did. Everyone who worked there (and some of the patients themselves) knew that Samara had killed before. It was certainly no secret. A popular sixteen-year-old girl with a seemingly ideal life had just snapped one day and murdered her father, stepmother, and nine-year-old stepbrother. That wasn't where it had stopped either. She'd killed several more people (some of her friends who ran in the popular circles) before her biological mother and brother had stopped her and pleaded insanity when she was taken to court. That was how she'd wound up in Smith's Grove.

When it was discovered that the treatments they tried on her weren't working, and Samara seldom took them anyway, they stopped the pills and just focused on keeping her calm, comfortable, and most of all happy (so she wouldn't go on a killing spree) until they could think up something that might have the slightest chance of working for her. They kept her drawing, promising to hang her pictures up, and never did.

Samara's drawings were some of the most violent things in the world, but they were also among the most tragically beautiful.

Other than her disturbing pictures, Samara was relatively normal for somebody who was at Smith's Grove. The staff commented that sometimes it didn't even seem like she could be a killer; she was just a sweet, innocent girl. Even though she didn't really smile a lot, nobody really felt threatened around her. She usually didn't cause a lot of unrest in the sanitarium, as she was mostly quiet and kept to herself. But a particular sort of... problem had arisen with her.

Samara was fine when left alone in her cell. She didn't care about new people except when she came out of her cell. When she had first been introduced to all of the inhabitants when she arrived, she had been fine. But she was often upset by new people who came. Whenever she came out for her meals, and she saw people she didn't know who had recently been admitted to Smith's Grove, she would become distraught. She would either attempt to hide from them by running behind her nurse or she would try to attack them by coming at them with one of her pens. If she attacked them, all she usually ended up doing was poking them in the arm because she was afraid that if she hurt new people they would do worse to her. (This somewhat annoyed some of the patients, but they just shook their heads and waved her away.) Her hiding or attacking could typically be prevented by just having her sit somewhere away from the new people.

But earlier that year, she had begun a situation that worried nearly all of her nurses and companions. In her desperate need to be accepted as who she was, by people other than the staff (who didn't really accept her anyway), and also her raving paranoia, she became infatuated with another patient. It was not unheard of at other places, but it was quite uncommon at Smith's Grove. It was sort of cute when Samara began to replace her normal gory drawings with doodles of her name and his name trapped in a big heart surrounded by little hearts. It was cuter when she would sometimes ask her nurses to find out if he knew her name. It _wasn't_ cute, however, when every aspect of her life slowly began to revolve around that one man. The only problem with her infatuation was the fact that it was gradually turning into far more than a simple crush; it now bordered on an obsession.

He was the only new patient she hadn't either been afraid of or tried to stab with her pen. In fact, she _smiled_ when she saw him for the first time - actually _smiled_, not smirked like she was going to kill somebody. She had expressed desire to talk to him, but had also said she feared he might not like her, or that she might say the wrong thing and then he would think she was stupid. No one had told her otherwise, though Dr. Loomis had been thinking about it.

Samara had been this way for almost six months now. She stayed shut up in her cell except for meals, and she just drew the entire time; that was normal for her. But it was odd because the subject of her drawings was what changed. If she took coloring pages, which was rare now, she demanded they be custom drawn so that they contained a very tall man who wore a mask and a woman in a knee-length dress with a pen and sketchbook. It was obvious who they both were.

And when she drew her own pictures, which she did more frequently, they were always the same thing, over and over. Albeit her subject was set in different poses and in different clothes (Samara had once attempted to draw him nude, but once her nurse realized that she was drawing him shirtless the paper and pencil were taken from her, and it didn't happen again), but it was always the same person. It was her infatuation, every time, for six entire months. She just sat there and drew him, occasionally looking up as if hoping to snatch a glimpse of him. All she drew now was him, and as she did, all she ever said was his name, in a whispering tone like a lover: "Michael..."

It wasn't hard for the staff to see how strong her obsession with Michael Myers was. They just weren't sure if it was really a good thing.

**THANKS SO MUCH FOR CLICKIN' ON MAH STOREH.**

**Well, um. Explanation? Hmm. Don't really have one. I WAS happily writing my Jason Voorhees fic (wanna check it out? :D) and I remembered that I'd read about Mikey and he seemed like a real sweetie. (Even though he's a serial killer. Teehee plz.)**

**So I decided it was HIGH TIME I made one for lovable little Mikey. Just like with my Jason fic (for those of you who've read it), I haven't seen any of the Halloween movies. Unfortunately. I tend to focus more on the psychological things than the violence and stuff, which in all honesty scares me a little. But once again, I HAVE done mah homework on dear Mikey. I've read his bio thingy, I've read how other authors write him and I think I can do him fairly well. Tell me if I'm doing him wrong? Though he hasn't really done anything yet... XD But don't worry, he will take an active part in chapter 3! This chapter was kind of an introduction to Samara.**

**Oh yeah, Samara. I was originally going to use the name Samantha, but then I found out that was the name of another character in Halloween. Then I tried Tiffany, and someone said that was ALSO a character in Halloween but they didn't care. So I just changed her name to Samara because I still wanted people call her Sam sometimes, and Samara sounds a little more... hmm... sinister than Samantha. Anyone know "Samara's Song"? It's the creepiest song in the universe, I listened to it almost on an continuous loop while writing the second chapter... XD**

**Oh yeah! Before I forget, I need to explain the name of the story a little bit. Oxytocin. Yeah. It's a chemical or hormone in the body that is released during certain stressful situations. The most common of these situations is when a woman gives birth. Her body (as well as the father's body) release oxytocin, which causes the mother and father to form an extremely strong attachment to the baby (and the father to the mother). It's a way of "keeping the family together", so to speak. It is also released during the disorder known as Stockholm Syndrome, where a victim forms an attachment to their kidnapper or the person holding them hostage. As for Samara, well... you'll see what her problem is. All in due time, my pretties, all in due time...**

**Ummmmm... review or... Mikey will come after you with his steak knife thingy? ^^; Is that okay with you, Mikey?**

**Michael: *sharpening his knife* *looks over at me and shrugs***

**Me: Um, okay... *walks off grumbling* Phantom of the damn Opera over there can't give me a straight f'ing answer... I'ma steal Jason's knife and stab him while he sleeps!**

**Michael: *hovering behind me with his knife***

**Me: Eep... I was just kiddin', Mikey! ^^; Can't take a joke either...**


	2. Chapter 2

Samara's mornings were sometimes spent in solitude. There would be a guard outside of her room, but in the morning she would not have a nurse for two hours since she woke up so early. But that was fine with her. The mornings were spent doing one thing: drawing. Granted, it wasn't any different from what she normally did every single moment of every single day, but she loved doing it, and when nobody else was around she could even add a little more violence than she typically would.

This morning was no different from any other morning. When she woke up and saw the time, she knew she'd have to wait two hours for eight o'clock to arrive before a nurse took her to breakfast. She didn't mind, because she climbed right out of her uncomfortable bed and looked out the window, stretching a little. She saw the guard outside, and she rejoiced for she had a perfect view of _his_ room. It wasn't directly across from hers, but that didn't mean she couldn't see it well enough. The black outline of his name on the white plaque contrasted against the rest of the white building as well, popping out so she could see it clearly. _Michael Audrey Myers_. She'd fallen so in love with that name, she didn't mind staring at it for hours on end.

The only reason she didn't was because something else occupied her time, and that was her sketching. All she wanted to do was sketch _him_, to sketch Michael and to draw her with him. She wanted nothing more, for the rest of her life. She would be content to just draw him, and to draw her into the picture as she could never be by his side in real life. If she could only be with him in her fantasies, then so be it. She would draw as many of her fantasies as she could then.

She happily began another new drawing, not caring to finish any of her previous ones yet. She drew Michael first, deciding to add herself in later. A few swipes of her pencil produced the first thing, his white porcelain-looking mask and short, wavy brown hair, though she couldn't color it in because she didn't have her crayons. Then came his neck and broad, strong shoulders, connected to powerful arms. In his arms was none other than herself. She drew her small, heart-shaped face surrounded by her signaturely ponytailed black hair. She dressed herself in a white gown that went to her knees, with very thin straps holding up the low-cut top section (instead of her normal, plain sanitarium uniform), and no shoes.

She decided to make them both splattered with blood. She made up a story for that picture; they had both just finished a kill they'd worked on as a team, and they were smiling at each other (well, if Michael wasn't wearing a mask, she knew she'd have drawn him smiling) while covered in blood. Michael was holding a knife to her neck, and she was holding a fork to his, both looking at each other in pleasure. She signed her name and titled the picture at the bottom of the page: "I'll Share Your Pain If You Share Mine".

She was about to start on the shading when the door to her cell opened. She turned in her sitting position to face one of her least favorite men, Dr. Loomis. She didn't like him because he was the one who tried to force that "crazy" medicine on her. She wasn't crazy. She turned around and resumed her drawing, eyes half-closed. "Good morning, Dr. Loomis. How was your night?"

"Fine." She could hear him walking closer to her. "How was yours?"

"Alright, I suppose. Why are you here? Where is my nurse?"

"They won't be coming to get you this morning. I'll take you to breakfast because there is someone I would like you to meet."

He should know already that she hated new people. "Who?"

"Oh, no doubt you know him already... to a degree anyway. Michael Myers. I'd like to introduce you two. Maybe you could... find ways to help each other."

"Help each other with what?" On the inside, she was jumping for joy. She was going to finally meet Michael in person?

"Well... you both have interesting hobbies, and both of your hobbies connect to art. You like to draw pictures, and he likes to make masks out of papier-mâché. I thought perhaps that you and he could... give each other ideas. I spoke with him about it, and he seems... err... well, he wouldn't mind meeting you, is what I supposed I could say. He has a mask he'd like to show you. Do you have any drawings you'd like to show him?"

Though any normal person who didn't spent their days at Smith's Grove might take Dr. Loomis's words at face value, Samara knew better. There was an underlying meaning beneath his falsely cheerful tone. As she continued to shade her picture, she knew exactly what he was telling her, and she was insulted that he thought she was that stupid. "We're both _murderers_, you mean. And you believe that placing us in each other's company will somehow destroy the murderous nature. What the hell are you, an animal breeder? It's not as simple as placing a male and a female together and hoping they populate. Bastards, all of you."

Dr. Loomis sighed, and from what she could hear he sounded like he was getting fed up with her constant arguing. "Look, Samara. We both know you've wanted to meet Michael ever since he got here. I'm giving you the chance to finally do it."

She didn't look away from her picture, adding the subtle shadows and details onto it. She was, however, still carrying on a conversation with her doctor. "I don't know, sir. Suppose I mean to say something, and then I just say something completely different? He'll think I'm an idiot and he'll never want to see me again."

"Why wouldn't he want to see you again simply because you're not smart?"

"Because he is so very intelligent. Would a genius surround themselves with ignorant assholes? Yes, but only so he could feel better about himself. Why go if I'm only going to be his mirror?"

"Because he would like to meet you and you would like to meet him. What more reason do you need, Samara?"

"I..." She looked once more at her picture. She traced over it lightly with her nail only, so as not to smudge the image of what she so desired more than anything else. She desired Michael Myers, the most intriguing man she had ever seen in her life, to hold her and love her forever. She knew that if he would just do that, then they could always be happy. They could make each other happy. It would be so easy. But was it worth risking appearing as a moron the first time they met? She didn't know.

"Samara." It sounded like Dr. Loomis was now becoming angry with her. "If you do not make a choice in the next five minutes, I will make one for you. And I don't believe you're going to be fond of my choice."

"Does your choice involve haloperidol?" **(1)**

"It's highly likely."

She rolled her eyes at him, even though he couldn't see. She put her pencil down and picked up her drawing. "Fine. I'll go."

"Good. Get up so I can put your chains on and I can take you to breakfast, where you will meet him."

**(1) - Haloperidol is an antipsychotic drug. Better known as Haldol or Keselan (though there are more brand names), it's used to treat schizophrenia and also to possibly calm a patient down. In Samara's case, they use it to restrain her if she gets out of hand or doesn't cooperate. So yeah, Loomis is threatening to drug her and drag her down to meet Michael, who obviously won't be drugged and she'll look really... ummm... stupid. And she doesn't wanna look stupid.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**Merry belated Christmas and Happy Serial Killers' New Year! ^o^ (Michael, Jason, Freddy - THIS IS OUR YEAR! ^^)**


	3. Chapter 3

Samara's chains rattled as Dr. Loomis led her down the twisting hallways of Smith's Grove. She didn't pay attention to anything, just looking down at her feet and humming lowly under her breath. She tried not to show it, but she couldn't totally repress her excitement. Meeting him for the very first time! She had to find _some_ way to express how happy she was. And since jumping in the air and screeching in joy was usually frowned upon here (and everywhere else), she just vibrated her vocal cords in a steady, jovial manner. A small smile stretched across her face, an unusual expression for her unless she were drawing her violent pictures.

Dr. Loomis gave her a light shove into the cafeteria. "Can you spot Michael? The nurses tell me you draw him, so you must know what he looks like."

Samara scanned the room before pointing to the man over in the corner by himself. He had a bag beside him on the bench and he was sitting at the table that was by the window. He wasn't really eating, just sitting there looking out the window. "That's him."

"That's good. Why don't we go over and say hi?"

She nodded, mentally rolling her eyes at the way he worded it, like she was stupid or something. She hated people who thought she was stupid.

He walked her over and she sat down across the table from Michael. She made sure to sit still while Dr. Loomis re-fastened her chains to the leg of the table. She felt giddy with glee as Michael looked over and the eyes behind his mask met hers. She smiled a little and looked down, blushing.

"Michael," Dr. Loomis said. "I've told you I wanted to bring someone to meet you, didn't I? This is her. She's been wanting to meet you properly for quite some time."

Michael nodded, and brought his bag up and set it on the table. He looked up at Samara for a moment, then reached into the bag.

"Oh yes." Dr. Loomis gestured to the man across the table. "Michael has something he'd like to give you, Samara."

"Oh? What is it?" She tried to flutter her eyelashes in a seductive manner, but she decided that she'd failed miserably.

Michael pulled something out of the bag and slid it across the table to her, nodding.

When Samara took it, she found it to be a mask. It looked almost like his, but it had black markings around the eyes and lips, as well as bloodred streaks running down from the eyes that looked like tears. There was a string attached, stretching so one could strap it around their head. Also added was a layer of what seemed to be some kind of wig; it was brown, like his, and felt like the hair you would find on a child's doll. She looked up from the beautiful object and at Michael in awe. "This... This is for me?"

He nodded. He made a motion like he was sliding a mask over and putting it on his face.

"You... want me to put it on?"

Another nod.

She pressed the inside of the mask to her face and breathed in the cool, crisp scent of painted papier-mâché. She slipped the string behind her hair and over her ears. The faux hair fell neatly over her own black hair, but the wig was shorter than her hair was; not by an excessive amount, but by enough that she was sure her real hair showed. Oh well.

She saw Michael lean forward, as if asking what she thought of it.

She smiled, though nobody could see it, and nodded her own head. "I like it. Thank you, Michael."

He looked down, as if to tell her she was welcome. He brought his hands up and folded them neatly on the table as she slid the mask up so that it was still resting on her head, but not on her face.

Out of the corner of her eye, Samara could see a faint smile or... maybe it was a smirk... on Dr. Loomis's face. "Well, I suppose I'll just leave you two alone now. Breakfast will come soon." And he walked away, backwards, still looking at them.

Samara reached into her pocket and unfolded the drawing she'd done earlier this morning. "I have something for you too, Michael." She pushed the paper across the table to him. "I drew it." She leaned over and pointed out everything to him. "This is you, and you're holding me. See?"

He nodded, picking the paper up. It seemed like he was looking at it, scanning it for any kind of faults. Or maybe he was looking for something to compliment on.

Samara felt a sinking in her heart as she realized that maybe he didn't like it. That just compelled her to point out even more of the picture. She pointed to the blood on his mask and clothes, and also on her face, as well as their weapons. "See, look at this part! We just killed somebody together. It was magnificent, we worked flawlessly like a couple of real partners." She pointed to a cut on her own stomach in the picture. "And do you see that? You swung at the man but you missed and I was in the way. That's why you're holding me, because you didn't know how to say you were sorry. And look, we're both going to hurt each other. That will bring us closer. Pain is a bond, you know, Michael."

He seemed to be thinking about that. Slowly he nodded, and pulled out a tablet from his bag. He wrote something on it with a pen from the breast pocket of his uniform, then displayed it to her. _I know. I've bonded with people through pain before._

"Would you... would you like to bond with me through pain?" She was silently praying he would say yes.

_Maybe someday. It's boring in here and bonds excite things._

"They do." She reached over and put her hand over top of his. "Bonds are exciting because they're unknown."

_They're new._

"You have no idea where they will lead."

_They could drag you past the point of no return with no hope of coming back._

"Risky."

_Deadly._

"... Seductive." Okay, maybe she'd crossed the proverbial point of no return with that one.

Michael looked at her for a moment before writing something else. But he finally did and held it up. _Beautiful._

Heat rushed to her face, and she wished she had kept that mask on. "W-Well... yeah, I guess... bonds are beautiful."

He looked at her again, for maybe five seconds, then wrote something else. When he held it up, he also pointed to the picture - to the giant utensil the two-dimensional Samara was holding up to the two-dismensional Michael's neck. _You're forking me? _**(1)**

Samara couldn't resist holding in a giggle. She nodded. "That's what I use to hurt people. A giant fork."

_Is that what you killed your family with?_

"No. Unfortunately I couldn't find one big enough so I just used... well, I strangled my stepmother, the evil whore, with a broom, then I stabbed my father with a knife, then while my bratty little stepbrother was sleeping I snuck up and put a pillow over his face and held it there till he stopped breathing, and then..." She shrugged. "Well, I took my dad's shotgun and killed some of the sluts at my school."

He nodded. _I usually like to use a knife. It's good that you used one. But where do you get a fork that big?_

She chuckled darkly. "I was going to make one, to go kill my mother for divorcing my dad and screwing up our family, but they caught me first."

_I think you should try and make one here._

"Well, what on Earth would I make it out of?"

He shrugged. _You could always make a model out of papier-mâché._

"... Could you teach me how? I only did it, like... once... when I was really young. I kind of forgot how."

He nodded. _Sure, if Dr. Loomis lets us be together more. I wouldn't mind._

Samara smiled and played with the fake hair on her mask. "So, Michael... I was wondering... do you know my name?"

_Of course._ She had the feeling he was grinning at her under that mask. _Samara Elizabeth Weeks. S.E.W._

**(1) - OH YOU KNOW YOU WANNA LAUGH. MIKEY MADE A JOKE.**

**... Who votes that Samara should be allowed near sharp objects?**

**Loomis: WTF _YOU'RE_ THE ONE WHO'S CLINICALLY INSANE! *tries to drag me off to the funny farm that I escaped from***

**Me: ;P**

**Mikey: ... *raises his hand* (Translation: "Samara must have her fork.")**

**Me: YES SHE DOES. ^^**


	4. Chapter 4

"Sammy, if you would just take the medicine-"

"Shut _up_, Cameron!" Samara glared through the glass at the woman who had the gall to call herself Samara's mother. "Would you just shut up!"

"Sammy, don't talk to me like that! I'm your mother! And if you would just take that medicine they give you then you would be able to get out of here!"

Samara gripped the phone in her hand even harder. Seeing Cameron always had this effect on her. She got angry, her head clouded up, and she made stupid decisions and said stupid things. "Have you ever though maybe I don't _wanna_ leave? Maybe I wanna stay here! Maybe I _like_ it here, and maybe that medicine doesn't fucking work!"

Cameron gave her a glare of her own. "What kind of fucking psychopath likes mental institutions, Sammy? Do you even hear yourself? What the hell could you possibly like about this place?"

"More people care about me here! I have _friends_ here!"

"Dr. Loomis spoke to me, Sammy! He said the only friends you have here are the nurses and even they don't like you!"

"He's a liar! As hard as it is to believe _somebody_ here likes me!"

"Then tell me who they are! You can't do that, can you? Because _they don't exist_!"

"You bitch!" Samara slammed her hand down on the table and got as close to the window as she could. "His name is Michael and I like him too! He's a perfect man and he's perfect for _me_! We've even kissed!"

... She'd always had a problem with lying...

"What the hell!" Cameron gave her this totally disgusted look as she inched back away from the thin sheet of glass separating her from her daughter. "I don't believe you! You really are insane!"

"You've been saying that for years, Cameron! You've been telling me how crazy I am for five years! What the hell changed to make you just state that? Because I kissed someone? Huh?"

"You're a slut, Sammy! I don't get how you can live with yourself! You whore!"

Samara leaned forward. "You won't be saying that when I get outta here and kill you and your fucking son in your fucking sleep!" With that, she slammed the phone back onto the wall and turned her back.

A nurse escorted her away, telling Cameron she needed to leave. Taking the shackles on her hands without fuss and walking down the hall, she was still fuming at the woman who had enough nerve to call herself Samara's mother.

"There is no way I'm related to that woman," she huffed under her breath.

"Almost there," the nurse, Andrea, said, leading Samara to her room.

"Can I _please_ go see Michael?" Samara asked, irritated. "I haven't seen him for two days. Dr. Loomis said it was alright for us to be together. I was helping him finish an art project."

Andrea sighed, but veered off to Michael's room. "Fine. I'll inform him of this and you'll only be staying an hour."

"Hey, I'm chained up in a mental institution. I take what I can get."

Andrea led Samara down the hall to Michael's room. The smooth black gloss of his name over the silver plating was a welcome tranquilizer to Samara's frazzled mind. She walked inside, greeting Michael with a silent smile as Andrea carefully undid the chains. She placed them near the door and sat, nodding at Michael. "Go on, Samara, you have an hour. Don't waste it."

Samara nodded back and walked over, sitting down in one fluid motion across from Michael at the coffee table. "Good afternoon, Michael." She reached across the table and grabbed a piece of newspaper, beginning to dip it in glue and help Michael with the new mask.

He slid the notebook over to her. _Good afternoon, Samara. I can't help but notice you're doing that quite angrily. Are you upset?_

She blew her bangs up and laid another piece of mâché over the mask, more carefully this time. "My whore of a mother came to talk to me today."

_Oh? How did it go?_

"She always pisses me off. She wants me to take that damn medicine they give me so I can get out of here. Umm, hello, maybe I wanna stay here. Duh."

_I see. I'm sorry she made you angry. I would kill her if I knew where she lived._

"Pshh, leave that to me, please." She dipped another strip of newspaper into the glue. "I want to finish her off myself, along with my dumbass brother. Can you believe, she didn't think you were real?"

_Why?_

"I told her I had a friend here and she said to tell me who it was but oh wait, I couldn't because they weren't real. So I told her your name and that, um..." She blushed and looked down. "That we kissed."

_So... you lied._

"I falsified the facts a little, yes. I've always had a habit with lying. Sorry, Michael. Forgive me?"

_What did she say after that?_

"Oh, she called me a slut, said she didn't believe me, and then said I was insane. Um, duh."

Michael reached over, and took her hand. He lightly pressed the top of her fingers to his mask. He let go and wrote something else in the notebook, then displayed it. _Well, at least you're not a liar now. I've kissed you._

Samara blinked a few times, then shook her head. "Uh, um, uh, thanks, Michael."

_Not a problem._

She leaned her cheek on her hand and simply watched him for a moment. His movements were so effortless, so graceful as he was making the mask. "Your mom ever visit you?"

_Sometimes. Not so much now that I'm all grown up, but sometimes._

"She ever say stuff to you?"

_Just normal mother stuff. How much she misses me around the house, how she remembers A's I got on tests I don't even remember. More annoying than anything else. I never say anything back or write to her or anything._ He paused for a moment before writing more. _You know who I really miss?_

She picked up another part of newspaper. "Who?"

_My little sister, Laurie. She must be all grown up by now. I think she's almost eighteen, if I'm counting right._

Samara slopped the extra glue off the newspaper with her thumb and index finger, then put it over the mask. "I don't give a damn about my brother. Never have, never will. If I'd acted on those impulses when I was five, he would be six feet deep with a couple of fork marks in his neck. People would be running around screaming vampire."

_Be careful what you say._ Michael chuckled. _I think poor Dracula just rolled over in his grave._


End file.
